


Weltschmerz

by edgy_fluffball



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A little more angsty than intended, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Courfeyrac Bakes, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Fluff and Angst, German Words Are Beautiful, Grantaire cares, Jehan Is A Force Of Nature, Jehan Plays the Piano, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Students, rainy day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 07:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgy_fluffball/pseuds/edgy_fluffball
Summary: "Weltschmerz" (n.) - German word that describes a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.Literal translation: World Pain.Enjolras struggles.





	Weltschmerz

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by @nevermore-plutonianshore.

It had begun to rain before dawn, if the bleak morning light could be called that. The heavy clouds had dressed the city in a dark coat of depression and grim faces that enveloped the people hurrying through the streets and puddle-strewn alleyways. The temperature had dropped, leaving people shivering in the biting wind and stinging cold of the raindrops pelting against every surface below with close to lethal force.

Up above the deserted streets, leaning against one of the high windows on the second floor of one of the older buildings on this particular street, a busy mind put itself out of work. Shielded by the window glass and half hidden behind the curtains, he watched the raindrops drip from the balcony balustrade. A sole pigeon sat on the roof gable opposite, cleaning its plumage and puffing itself up every few moments to reach under single feathers. It seemed unfazed by the rain soaking it since it had chosen not to look for cover as near as a few feet to its left where a dormer would have kept it dry and safe. The pigeon astonished him. He would not have been caught out there for any money in the world, nothing could persuade him to leave the relative cosiness of the flat. He had taken precautions before he had sat down to work, there was a pot of tea on a warmer and he held a cup in his hands to warm his fingers; that was until he had actually sat down.

He had hoped to get some work done, despite a lingering feeling that something might have been wrong. It was a familiar uneasiness that he had hoped to have stifled since breakfast. He had not talked about it to anybody, there was no point in it anyway. It had waited for him to sit down, he had opened his laptop, screwed the cap off of his pen and tipped it to his lower lip, a motion that had become second nature to him. He had only stopped biting his pens after the Inkmouth-Incident when he had grown too agitated. He still sucked the back of it when he thought of something clever. Come to think of it, he had not sucked on his pen in days. His mind had ground to a sudden halt and no thought made it past the barricades drawn up by his own brain.

At some point he had just wanted to clear his head so that he could get some work done. It was at that point that he had stood up and taken his cup to stand at the window and find an answer somewhere in the rain. He could not find an explanation for it. Sometimes it all just seemed pointless. He knew he had thoughts, of course he did, and judging by experience, they weren’t half bad most of the time. Just this morning, any clever idea or thought seemed to evade him, leaving him with nothing but the pressing feeling of despair and failure. He rested his head against the cool window glass, hoping it would help him startle his brain awake. All it did was make him shiver and freeze. None of them had wanted to heat the old building with its high ceilings and floor length windows. He looked around and grabbed the first woollen blanket he could reach from the sofa, tugging it around his shoulders and into his belt. A dress shirt seemed a little thin for a cold, rainy day in hindsight, but he liked the way the cloth stretched over his shoulders and back. Slipping into fuzzy socks and wrapping himself into the blanket, using it like a stole, seemed to be the best – and only – idea he had all day. He returned to the window to find that the pigeon had taken off to another place, hopefully drier and less windy than its previous perch. His gaze followed the smoke coming out of one of the chimneys of the houses opposite. Apparently, not all Parisians thought like his friends and him. It stared him in the face, the difference between them and everybody else, the reason why any project he undertook and started was doomed to fail from the beginning.

As he looked out over the historic city centre, his chest seemed to tighten, he pulled the blanket closer in an attempt to warm up and shoo away the dark feelings trying to invade his mind. He felt heavy and paralysed, trying to chase his thoughts before they could disappear again. The gloomy light outside hurt his eyes, he closed them and listened to the blood rush in his ears. His fingers twirled a strand of his hair, a gesture he had taken on when he grew too nervous and agitated. And agitated he was. How was his small group of friends supposed to bring actual change to a society and community as one-tracked and simpleminded as the people around them? How could he think of anything new to undertake when it all seemed to be pitched overwhelmingly against them? What strength could he muster up to face any struggle they could possibly encounter, how could he inspire his friends to follow their self-set course, if he doubted his own goals and capability just because a little rain put a dampener on his mood? His chest got tighter with every breath he tried to suck in, he clung to the blanket around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin in want of contact. For a moment, he wished the lump in his throat would just dissolve into tears, allowing him to lower the pressure he felt on his chest, but instead of rising into his eyes in watery form, the lump decided to grow even further and strangle him.

He could not cry, not in the living room whilst the soft, melancholic sound of a pianoforte wavered through the house. There was no telling whether a recording played or Jehan practised for their next recital, not since Courfeyrac had taken up baking and liked to listen to Jehan’s latest CDs at full volume. The smell of something baking – bread, cake, cookies, who knew? – accompanied the soft piano tune and made the reason for its playing indeterminate. Before long, Courfeyrac would come in to offer round what he had baked and he would not give up until every one of their housemates had tried the new recipe he had dug out. He could not cry out of desperation because sooner than later, someone would come in and none of his friends could see him like that. Again, he tried breathing against the ever growing lump in his throat with the only result being that he felt his breaths come out in gasps. His reflection in the window pane before him scolded him with rings under his eyes against pale skin and the sharp edges of his bones, a result of recent loss of appetite, something even Courfeyrac had given in to.

A thought returned to his brain and he shuddered as he realised that it had better stay out. The one thing on his mind, the only thought that remained there, was how stupid he had been. The evanescence of mundane grandeur, why had he not thought of that weeks earlier? It could have saved him troubles and arguments, if he had only thought about how all his working towards the higher cause would fail because he dreamt an ideal instead of taking on the real world around them. How could any world change enough to meet the standard he had drawn up for their group to pursue?

His chest now felt tight enough to burst at any moment. Close to willing himself to cry, just to feel the relief it would bring him, he leaned back against the window. He realised he had been biting his nails but didn’t move his hands. If his body betrayed him he would find relief in other ways than crying. Of course, it all was temporary. He saw the bits and scraps of paper and his pens on the table where he had arranged them in neat piles and lines, in case that a thought came to him through the cotton wool that seemed to have been wrapped around his head and stuffed into his ears.

It was pointless, he pulled the blanket even tighter to adjust it and took a sip of his tea. It was ice cold by now and he felt even more like crying when he felt the bitter, cold liquid run down his throat. He felt sick for a moment, almost certain that he would throw up on the nice woollen blanket, Jehan’s, as he now realised, fluffy, soft and warm, just like his friend. Even his tea had betrayed him and left him thinking how he could not even do a little thing like enjoy a hot cup of tea because he ran himself into the ground over worrying about things they would never achieve. No matter what he wrote and printed in the campus newspaper, things would never change. No one even read what he wrote about the pressing and urgent matters their university was facing every day, no one cared about what they thought up and tried to change.

It seemed to be best to push the papers together, return them to his desk and then make a new cup of tea. He could curl up into a ball until someone came into the living room to check on him and the furniture. Interim checks had become his new normality ever since he had crashed into the wall with his armchair because the reasoning in the Dean’s last statement on a subject he had first started had been more than shallow and left a lot of loose ends. Of course, he had expected nothing less. It still infuriated the hell out of him that their goals were so easily put aside without anyone even noticing that they tried to change the university life for the better, in the name of democracy and the students’ right to be heard. Their fight, their revolution would be left to rot, if the Dean had any say in the matter. They still tried to recruit new fighters for their cause but with all the spokes put in their wheels and obstacles put in their way, newcomers were sparse. Their best men were trusted with recruiting, Feuilly, Combeferre and Jehan were working on it every day at their corner desk in the auditorium, offering coffee and Courfeyrac’s baked goods to their fellow students along with a leaflet and an encouraging smile.

He took another sip of his tea, having already forgotten about the earlier vile attack launched against his taste buds. He remembered, of course, as he tasted the bitter, cold tea on his tongue for the second time. This time, he came even closer to throwing up, his stomach decided to get tied into a knot and he gagged at the feeling. Not even this relief his body granted him.

The piano seemed to grow louder. He needed a moment to realise that the door to the living room had been opened. A second later, the cup of tea was taken from his stiff fingers and put back down on the table. Warm hands intertwined with his cold ones and pushed under the blanket stole. They dragged over his hips and felt for the belt hoops.

‘What’s the matter, my love?’ He was pulled back into a warm embrace, ‘You seem tense, Enjolras.’

‘I just…I have this horrible feeling. It all seems pointless, doesn’t it? It’s all smoke and dreams. It’s all for nothing.’

‘What is this, you giving up? You? I am aghast!’

‘Shut up, R,’ Enjolras turned in the arms that were holding him to face his boyfriend. Immediately, he felt the knot in his stomach loosen, his chest was not as tight as before and he seemed to be able to breathe freely.

It did not prevent Grantaire from examining him closely. The single wrinkle between his eyebrows appeared, a fool proof sign of his discontent for whatever he read in his face.

‘No. What are you working on?’

Enjolras rested his head against Grantaire’s shoulder and closed his eyes. All he wished for was a simple moment with him, his nose full of his cologne and an argument about the principles of society. Instead, he felt fingers comb through his hair, massaging his scalp and getting him dangerously close to purring like a cat. Grantaire knew decidedly too much about his weak spots.

‘I’m supposed to write a draft for our proposal to introduce the possibility for students to bring their own cups, instead of the disposable ones the university canteens use. We posted it a week ago and need to deliver. I need to deliver. The university board needs to be persuaded to change their stance on the issue of waste prevention and thorough recycling around campus! But I’m stuck, I can’t come up with anything, as it seems. My brain is useless, empty!’

He emphasised his inner turmoil by pounding his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. A hand came up to pat his hair, fingers weaved into his curls and rubbed soft circles into his scalp. Grantaire moved closer to him.

‘Well, we’ll see about that later. I doubt your brain has lost its purpose so entirely. Let’s get you a fresh cup of tea, a proper hot one, sit down for a moment and recline,’ He moved Enjolras back towards the huge couch and poured a cup of tea from the pot on the warmer, ‘Remind me to thank Joly for keeping cups everywhere.’

‘You don’t understand, the statement needs to be with them as soon as possible,’ Enjolras took the cup nonetheless and took a sip, relishing in the welcome warmth spreading out from his stomach.

Grantaire seemed unfazed by this, instead he smirked with all the smugness Enjolras had fallen in love with, ‘You know what we’ll do? You can read me what you have for your statement later and I’ll gladly tear it apart.’

‘You love doing that.’

‘Yes, I do. I love doing it just to see you turn red with anger, you get this cute wrinkle on your forehead whenever you get angry with me. It also forces you to come up with further and better, more convincing arguments. It has proven to be quite successful.’

‘Is that so?’ Enjolras closed his eyes and followed his boyfriend’s lead who set down his cup on the table and nestled into the corner of the couch, wrapping his arms around him and tugging the blanket around them.

Enjolras felt a thought creep up on him and readied himself to catch it. He could not have another one slip away without having the opportunity to work it into something grander. Except there were rough hands snaking under the blanket and around his hips, pinching him his side, and lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck.

‘What are you doing?’ The thought was lost and Enjolras turned around to glare daggers at Grantaire.

He shrugged, ‘Stop thinking, muffin. That is not what reclining means. You are supposed to let me take care of you and cheer you up. If you try to think now, you’ll only frustrate yourself even more.’

He had a witty, snarky response ready to throw at him but Grantaire was moving on to his throat and kissed him there, turning each kiss into more of a promise that left Enjolras breathless and comfortably lightheaded. Within a second, he could not even think of a remark to scold his boyfriend for calling him muffin in the living room. Their nickname treaty permitted Grantaire to use any nickname he thought of in the shared privacy of their bedroom, but not in the joint rooms such as the living room or kitchen. Grantaire exploited their arrangement mercilessly most of the time and Enjolras had to force himself not to go off in his face when his poet of a boyfriend thought of an especially sappy, embarrassing, but fitting name for him. Not that he would ever admit how fond he was of some of Grantaire’s names for him.

‘Understood?’ The voice brought him back to reality, Grantaire was looking down at him and ran his fingers through his curls, caressing his face, ‘No thinking for a little while. We’ll sort the statement out later, with another pot of tea and a few of Courfeyrac’s muffins.’

‘So that’s what he’s been baking,’ Enjolras muttered against Grantaire’s dangerously close lips.

And all of a sudden, it was easy and Enjolras could let go of all the things swirling around his brain without making sense, he could lean back against Grantaire’s chest, his head cleared and mesmerised by the sparkle in his eyes. He had captured him and proceeded to do so every day since.

He leaned up, Grantaire bowed his head and they met in the middle in a kiss that was just about on the right side of too hungry. Enjolras curled in on Grantaire, allowing his fingers to wander and search his boyfriend’s body. There was no hidden intention behind it, none of them had an agenda or was out for more. The kisses they exchanged soon turned into lazy pecks and touches, they were comfortable in the other’s presence, content in their touch, grounded in each other’s opinions. Enjolras allowed Grantaire to take over and closed his eyes entirely, movements getting more sluggish and sloppy. A soft noise escaped him, causing Grantaire to chuckle against his lips but Enjolras could not bring himself to care, he was warm and comfortable and got cuddles from his boyfriend.  What else could he ever wish for?

Before long, they were only cuddling, Enjolras head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder, arms wrapped around each other’s waist to keep them close and in position and Grantaire had lowered his head so that they were close enough to feel the other’s breath ghost over their skin. Enjolras’ lips twitched, almost smiling. He was safe, he knew that and his foggy brain let him know that Grantaire would be there to catch him if anything happened.

Something like doors bursting open and a voice screeching. Enjolras sat up, dragging Grantaire with him who seemed too disoriented to do anything but grunted in displeasure, anyway.

‘I finished it! The whole thing is done and ready for producing,’ Jehan jumped onto the armchair and did something that looked like an impersonation of a squirrel on Speed, ‘We have to go out and celebrate tonight!’

Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras were in any state to answer, their short nap entangled with each other had managed to disorient them just enough that they did not find their voices. Grantaire’s hair was tousled, he had the outline of Enjolras’ shirt collar imprinted on his cheek and he looked still half-asleep. Enjolras would have been more than pleased to kiss him awake, if Jehan had not been jumping up and down in front of them on an armchair that was threatening to topple over with them on top.

‘Jehan…,’ he tried to say, his voice barely more than a squawk, ‘Jehan –‘

The door was pushed open for the second tome to reveal a flushed Combeferre who marched across the room and towards the suite, his hands at his hips and hissing, ‘Jehan, come down, you’ll only hurt yourself! Come down before they wake up and Grantaire skins you!’

‘Hello there, Combeferre,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘He managed to wake me up but I am not yet killing him, only if…well, he woke Enjolras, too. Tell me, Jehan, have you made your will?’

This got Jehan to climb off the armchair. They stood next to Combeferre, still moving a little but a lot calmer than mere seconds earlier.

‘Now, what is the matter with this?’ Enjolras stretched his arms and nestled himself back between Grantaire’s legs, ‘You seem…happy?’

‘Good guess, Enjolras, you keep getting better at feelings,’ Jehan clapped their hands a few times, ‘And good job, Grantaire, you might just make a decent human being of him.’

Combeferre coughed discretely.

‘Jehan – I’m too tired for this.’

‘I finished composing the last track. It’s done, the whole album is ready. Oh boy, I am so happy – I have to tell everyone,’ Jehan took off to dash into other rooms in their house and announce their success.

Combeferre’s gaze followed him before he shook his head, ‘We’ll have to sedate them tonight, if we want to get any sleep. I wish I had that much energy. Anyway, Courfeyrac thought you might like these before you…sleep…nap…cuddle? Whatever.’

He set down a plate of muffins on the table and left the room, leaving the door open.

‘Seriously, no one in this damn house knows how to work a door properly,’ Enjolras buried his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck and breathed his scent in, ‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Grantaire pressed a kiss to his temple, ‘For one, you agreed to read me what your statement says to pick it apart, proving that you deem me to be on the same street as you.’

‘Right, if that’s what you need to tell yourself,’ Enjolras attempted to reach his scribbled notes on the table without leaving Grantaire’s embrace. He tried to find the draft he had worked on before, a mess of crossed out lines and scribbles, more black than white, more struck out than legible.

‘Muffin?’

‘Yes?’

Grantaire laughed triumphantly, ‘No, I meant do you want one of Courfeyrac’s? I think they are blueberry ones.’

Enjolras felt the heat rush through his veins, into his cheeks. Grantaire had caught him unaware once again. His boyfriend pulled him back onto the couch and held out a muffin for him to take a bite of.

‘Why don’t we have lazy afternoons like this more often?’ Enjolras settled back into the corner of the couch and arranged his papers in his lap, ‘We could lie down together more often, right?’

‘No,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘You wouldn’t endure it. You need the thrill of your revolution pulsing through your veins and someone to talk into your stupid ideas at all times. You could not rest for long, not without losing your mind. Believe me, it’s better to have you run your protests and campaigns. I’ll still be here for you, if you want to have a lazy afternoon or a cuddle session. You know that, right?’

‘Sap,’ Enjolras kissed him and patted his hair, ‘I love you.’

‘Love you, too. And you know there are a lot of ways how I can have you pass the time away without you thinking too much. We can sleep it off, cuddle – or do other things.’

Enjolras shoved him for the comment but there was no malicious intend behind it. He cleared his throat instead and started on his statement. Grantaire listened intently, hanging on his every word without interrupting him at first. They went over every single argument he had written down, strengthening and editing them until even Grantaire could not find another weakness in the chain of reasoning that could be torn apart.

Before long, they had finished working on the statement and Grantaire promised to drop it off the following day. Enjolras allowed him to comb through his hair. He would only stop him, if he tried to braid his curls into creative patterns.

‘Guys, are you done?’ Jehan entered the living room, still without knocking but a lot calmer than earlier, ‘We planned to head to the Musain tonight, will you be coming?’

‘I guess we are,’ Enjolras tried a smile, ‘That composition earlier…a new piece? It sounded beautiful.’

‘Why, thank you. I tried to catch the essence of painful melancholia confronted with the hopeless state of the world surrounding the listener. It complements the new album beautifully.’

Enjolras felt his chest tighten a bit but Grantaire was there, holding his hand and smiling encouragingly, ‘We’ll be down in a few minutes.’

Jehan turned to leave the room. Enjolras called after them, ‘Have you got a name for the album?’

‘Weltschmerz.’


End file.
